


Any and all water is the colour of drowning

by Anonymous



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, almost, an almost disproportionate amount of ocean metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27470905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Charles’ moods were a tsunami, a self-propagating swell that tore everything down upon impact, flooding everything,becomingeverything. Pierre couldn’t think of a single thing in his life that wasn’t Charles; wins and losses, highs and lows, friends and enemies. It was all Charles, his influence breaking the surface and rolling into Pierre’s soul, white foam at the tip of every inescapable wave. Pierre stood while Charles swept away the sand beneath his feet, waiting to be washed away or pulled in by the tide. Which fate would Poseidon assign him today?
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: Anonymous





	Any and all water is the colour of drowning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singlemalter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/gifts).



> For you. For all the reasons you already know.
> 
> Title is a quote from Emil Cioran.

Entering Charles’ hotel room felt daunting despite the texts – _Please, Pierre, come over. I’m going to hurt myself if you don’t. I need you to come here, please._ – as if he accidentally wandered into a random person’s holiday accommodation and had no way out. A nervous glimpse into the bedroom; curtains billowing in the cold evening air like ghosts, laced fringes brushing the edge of the double bed. Into the lion’s den he went, morbid curiosity pulling him in past the bedroom door. Blocks of light moved across the room as cars passed by, the walls a dynamic canvas painted by flares. In the middle of all of it – the bed, the room, the world, the galaxy – was Charles, sitting against the headboard with a face of utter nonchalance, as if he was merely waiting for the bus on a fine summer day. Through the open window, gusts of wind carried rain into the room. Pierre would’ve admired Charles’s disregard to the soaked carpet and sheets if it weren’t for how his apathy got under his skin the way everything _il predestinato_ did. 

“Why did you ask me to come?” 

It was an invitation disguised as an innocent question: pull my strings, watch me move. 

“I missed you,” Charles answered, laconically, his voice schooled to indifference. There was a hint of a smile on his face; a languid expression of amusement that meant nothing and everything at the same time. Pierre weighed his options. Talking to Charles was like walking a tightrope, and every word he said could send a breeze his way. 

“Don’t lie.”

He couldn’t show any sign of hesitation now. Charles’ moods were a tsunami, a self-propagating swell that tore everything down upon impact, flooding everything, becoming everything. Pierre couldn’t think of a single thing in his life that wasn’t Charles; wins and losses, highs and lows, friends and enemies. It was all Charles, his influence breaking the surface and rolling into Pierre’s soul, white foam at the tip of every inescapable wave. Pierre stood while Charles swept away the sand beneath his feet, waiting to be washed away or pulled in by the tide. Which fate would Poseidon assign him today?

He expected some kind of reaction, then, when the words had come and gone. It was a sliver of predictability he’d discovered within the unpredictability that was Charles. A lighthouse to guide his vessel. Experience taught him the extremes, the screams and curses after the Spanish Grand Prix – Pierre closed his eyes, tried to fight against the images of a crash where one of the drivers wasn’t strapped in – and the tears afterwards, sobs filled with self-pity but lacking any sign of remorse. He waited to live; he waited to die; he waited for Charles to choose a path. Nothing.

“I said, don’t lie!” Pierre stepped closer, willing disaster to unfold. Charles stared at the wall in a catatonic trance while Pierre moved around the room to close the window and inspect the carpet. He could handle the rage and the anguish, but this was entirely different. 

“Tell me you don’t care! You woke me up at three in the morning on a race day of all days, and you don’t care. Why don’t you call Alex while you’re at it? George? Lando? Invite us all to the pity party!”

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

Somewhere, there was something in Charles that wanted out. Pierre knew there was; a part of his friend that was told to stay down, masked as ambition during the season, drowned in the most expensive Hennessy during the winter break. Charles leaned forward, breath vaporising in the air. Smoke. Fire. Everything that was once between them had been reduced to ashes.

“Right.” Pierre felt his chest tighten into a knot, rage building inside. One glance at Charles was enough to stir a hurricane that demanded to be released. He stepped forward. Charles looked away. It was a choreographed dance of destruction. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

Charles’ eyes narrowed at that. Blood was going to be spilt; feelings were going to be hurt. The reaction only made Pierre want to dig deeper, to flay Charles and expose his dirty little act to the world.

“You only call me when you need me,” Pierre seethed. “You don’t care who comes to rescue you when you’re down, as long as someone gives you the attention you want so desperately. You make me fear for your life and then discard me when I’ve satisfied your needs! Where were you when I was struggling? Where were you when the entire sport turned itself against me?!”

“You can go.”

He could feel the tension in Charles’ voice. Like water rushing into a sinking ship, the words weighed him down, anchored him to the ground as Charles pushed himself into an upright position. The sight took him back to the sound of breaking glass, the stinging memory of Charles’ hand across his face. And then Charles was in front of him, his presence a never-ending ebb and flow with Pierre trapped in the middle.

“I said, go!” 

The world fell through Pierre’s feet as he backed away. Somewhere between the bedroom and the hallway, Charles’ hands latched onto his shirt. He pushed against the door frame for leverage, turning corner after corner until he washed up in front of a door with a familiar number on it. His knees gave out before he could get his key card out of his pocket and he slid down onto the floor, gasping for air. He was vaguely aware of people walking by, some of them stopping to stare at him but none offering help. The realisation crept towards him and licked at his feet, threatened to swallow him whole, but he couldn’t find the strength to stand up. There was an anchor tied around his feet and Charles called him from the unknown void below him. 

In the vastness of the ocean, it was easy to give in.


End file.
